Splinch
by HoldYourSpin
Summary: Harry had been suffering from vertigo ever since the apparition incident. This was like that.


Splinch  
  
It felt like being splinched. He'd done it before, the first time he tried to apparate, when Malfoy broke his concentration with a quick, low shout of "Africa... France... Australia" and his body arced out into the world like a wave thrown against a rock.  
  
He ended up in Hogsmeade, mostly, but his left arm, which he'd flung out to hit Malfoy, was not. And his skin was strangely slack where missing muscles hollowed his face, which had been mid-shut it, Malfoy. Harry could neither smile nor frown for two weeks until a package from the Madagascar Ministry of Magic arrived with a note suggesting that whatever poor, unfortunate sot had lost them should perhaps consider alternate methods of transportation. Harry had never been so grateful for magical fingerprints, or for tracking charms.  
  
Finally capable, Harry yelled at Malfoy until his magically reconstructed face felt like it would seize up. He wanted more to punch Malfoy, but his hand was still missing, presumed to be in Australia (his shoulder came back from Calais, the rest of his arm down to his wrist from parts unknown of the French countryside – he must have seen pictures and could imagine his arm, hanging in a magical stasis just where it'd hang if his body had followed along, in front of some rustic country cottage like in one of those puzzles his Aunt Petunia stored in his cupboard) and Harry had lost his bearings along with the limb and fingers. He'd been off-balance and nearly useless until his hand arrived from the Sydney Opera House – the only thing he knew of Australia, beyond the kangaroos – and was slipped back into place. He'd been suffering from vertigo ever since the apparition incident and a wild swing would have sent him on his arse. Harry had never noticed his arm so much as he had since it disappeared.  
  
This felt like that, and all Harry could do was slump against the kitchen wall and wish for something to do with his hands, something to fidget with. Instead, he stared.  
  
He stared at the body, held in Snape's arms, stiff and strangely silver tinted. No one looked at Remus, except him. Even Snape's eyes were focused on the table top as he spoke; Harry didn't think anyone was listening anyway. Tonks had run out of the room when Snape tumbled through the fireplace with the body and most of the Weasleys were in some state of shock or despair. Ginny's face was red and tear-streaked and her mum sobbed like she had over the boggart in fifth year. Ron looked like he was trying to decide what to say, calculating the likelihood of Harry punching him for saying something unhelpful, maybe. Harry hadn't been so angry since just after Sirius died though, and anyway he couldn't have moved his arm to do it.  
  
Harry stared longest at Hermione who looked stricken – she'd never learn from Remus again, or if only she'd done the research she'd have succeeded where others had not. As if an almost seventeen year old could cure lycanthropy. As if she could reverse the tide of silver that Pettigrew released into Remus' veins. Harry had heard that bit, and the bit about Snape killing Pettigrew. Snape wasn't talking anymore, but Harry could see his fingers twitching against Remus' shoulder and thigh. Snape didn't look happy, but Harry thought he must be. The Defence Against the Dark Arts position would be open again, and that was the last of the Marauders.  
  
Harry was being uncharitable, he knew. But Remus was dead, and the house felt alive around him. The wall rippled behind Harry's back and the tarnished silver goblets on the table were beginning to gleam. Harry could hear Mrs. Black's portrait curtains sliding open, could hear a low chuckle in the hall. The house elf heads rattled on the wall. The house knew Remus was dead; it was feeding on the death of a dark creature, and Harry wanted to torch it all. Three or four incendios would be enough, if the house weren't charmed against such things. Harry didn't think he could open his mouth to say the word anyway.  
  
He thought instead about running, although his legs wouldn't move and he thought he'd only fall over if he even tried. He thought about crying, though he wasn't and couldn't, not like Ginny was. He thought about touching Remus, to see if Remus' skin felt as cold and smooth and metallic as that silver sheen looked. He wondered if Remus' body would tarnish in his grave, like the old cutlery and goblets had in this house. He wondered who would teach Defence classes this year.  
  
He hadn't known Remus, not really, not well enough. Harry hadn't studied him - the way he moved and thought and reacted - hadn't learned to read him. Harry only knew him in the context of other people, and of school. Remus was his father's friend, Sirius' lover, his own teacher. An occasional father figure, of sorts, but he hadn't known Remus and it wasn't fair that he was gone before Harry had really realized he was even there.  
  
It felt like missing a limb after he'd been splinched, except that Remus wouldn't be sent back in a box from some foreign land with pamphlets on safe apparition practices. Harry would be fine, just another cross-section missing, a biopsy of something inside himself, more conspicuous for its absence. And Harry would have to learn to walk again, to keep his balance again, to open his mouth to cast Patronus again, except this time magic wouldn't slip everything back into place like new. 


End file.
